Nosferatu's Handwriting
by Alukipz
Summary: Bullock is a Vampire presiding in London, England. He has lived for many years and has grown tired of his repetitive slaughter of weak humans. His recollection is to make a book, depicting what a Vampire truly does through his daily routine. Unfortunately for him, his servant Lux, may make his documentary more amusing than he would like.
1. Chapter 1

In my profession, the time of day can be an exquisite representation between life and death.

May I compare the light of day, to being placed inside a lovely coffin. Only to be surprised by an engulfment of flames, to make my skin scream in agony. While the so-called "holy beings" laugh at my untimely death.  
Now, my fare listener. Imagine you're in the company of your lover. A sweet happiness of exploding emotion, and delicious pleasure, as you enjoy the company of one another. The night time hours give this exact satisfaction to a creature of the dark; Such as I.  
By this time in my introduction, you have no doubt guessed that I am what most humans fear most. A... how do you say, blood-sucker. Nosferatu, or more commonly known; A vampire. Blood-sucker, such a detestable and ugly adjective for my kind.  
Don't get me wrong, some of us are outright savages. Complete, and utter bloody lunatics! Doing nothing more than feeding on weak humans, to satisfy their beastly urges. I, on the other hand, participate in these actions as well. However to me... It is a sport.

"Get the hell away from me!" A silhouette dashes through the street's artificial lights. He trips over his own feet, and apparently hurts his arm. "Please! He begins to sob, "Please... don't hurt me, take whatever you want from me!" The man's gaze is pointed to a tall, and menacing figure in the shadows. With red eyes, you could see coming from down you're local football field.  
The shadowy figure comes out of the dark, writing in what appears to be a book. "H-huh?!" The man grunts with a slight relieved tone, entrenched in his fearful voice. He begins to quiver again as he inspects his pursuer. A man roughly six feet, of fives inches tall. His eye's creep up the body. Black dress shoes, black dress pants with a bluish tint. "W-why! Why are you just standing there!  
A loud sigh is heard. The tall man retires his book and quill to his coat. Which I will go into further detail later. "You're incessant talking. It's giving me writer's block! Lux, I summon thee!

The tall man pulls out his book again, as another figure rises from the ground in a, red, smokey, splendor. She is beautiful, a mortal man's dream. She is a succubus, a demon from hell that uses sexual coercion, and dishonesty to get their way. However all she is to me, is trash. "You called master!" Her "master" throws the book into her hands. "W-what's this for?" she asks of him. "I want you to dictate every single thing I do, until I tell you otherwise. I expect perfect punctuation, proper English, and for Beelzebub's sake. Think of a title." Her master looks ashamed after his last sentence. "That's it? You're a boring master. Can't I kill this human! Lux's eyes lit up at the chance. Her master lowered his eyes at Lux. "If I wanted you to kill him... Why the hell would I need you here!" He yelled at Lux, his eyes going a complete blood red, with his teeth bared. Lux jumped away from her master, and sat on the ground wrapping her arms, around her knees.

He let's out another big sigh. "Enough crying, now watch as I completely devour this man. Wait, What!" To my master's surprise, his prey had ran away while he was yelling at me. How amusing. He turns back around with a disappointed look on his face. "Becoming the first vampire author won't be as easy, as you you thought. Eh Bullock?" His eyes get that same evil gaze again. "I told you to only call me master!" He said angrily, as he took the book back from me.

Being a Vampire with good taste is not the easiest thing in this world. Hell, even my slave laughs at me. But perfect killing, requires perfect description, and an audience to appreciate it. And I will have an audience. Lux start's laughing after looking over my shoulder at what I was writing. She returns back to hell in another red smoke. Her laughter echoing into the night. I will have an audience Lux... just you wait.


	2. Chapter 2

In anyone's line of work, if you do it long enough. You will start to notice the little things. Nearly every day of my, err~ work. I hear human's fearful gasping, and their quivering. Just by the way the human sounds, you learn what kind of person he, or she truly is. Some encounter death with no remorse whatsoever for their actions. Whether it be a priest or a child molester~. Some will wrap their arms around my legs, repenting to me as if I were a bloody confessional.

"Please, anything you want. Just please don't kill me!" Silence! The young female freshman, lay in bed with hefty breathing, and frightened gasps of air. A familiar sigh is heard throughout the room. "Here, I present myself in your room. Why? Certainly not to listen to your pitiful cries to continue living." My master explains coldly. The gasps of breath disappear into only heavy breathing. This girl realizes the man in front of her can not be persuaded into letting her live. She steps out of her bed, and pulls a sheathed knife from underneath her pillow. She begins to unsheathe her knife.  
In a flash, Bullock charges her. His arm reaching for her throat. *SLASH* Bullock has his hand wrapped around the girl's throat. Her eye's look to the deep wound she had made in Bullock's throat. The blood runs down his throat, unto the right side of his coat. The blood stands out, like a black sheep in a herd of white. The coat is midnight black. The blue buttons leading up to an ironically placed crucifix, held together with a gold chain. The freshman girl, can feel my master's hot breath complimenting her heated terror. Oh my this dictation is making me too excited-

"Lux!" My master's fierce call startles me, to the point of a stumble. He looks at me with poutful lips and unamused eyes. "The reader does not care about your sexual anxiety." Bullock says coldly to me. Slowly, I place the book on a nearby nightstand and look my master in his cold, ruthless, and dreamy- gah! There I go again getting distracted. I regain my composure, and clear my throat. "Master, you would be surprised at how many human readers appreciate a little sexuality in their readings" says I, with a cute grin on my face. My master starts to turn red from my words. Well, a different red then I'm usually used to. He hides his expression behind the neck of the college girl; digging his sharp fangs into her pink, and juicy neck. Red's (i'm going to call the college girl Red) cheeks fill with red. Growing more red as she moans in agony. My master has a seduced look on his face, completely aroused by the situation. He releases her softly, and cleans up the remainder of the blood on her neck with his long, snake-like tongue. Bullock lets go of her. Red falls to the ground with a soft thud, on the tiled floor. The scenery of the room almost grotesquely beautiful. A pure, small white room reflecting the moon's light. At the center, a poor innocent girl. "Sleeping" soundly against her light blue wall. The moon's light shining off her face.

My master turns to me and begins to speak. "There, I let you do your little- let's say romantic chapter in my book. Are you satisfied?" Quickly I respond; "Yes, yes! My master, that was simply brilliant. Your readers should be pleased. Said I with a bright, and musical tone to my voice. My master grins mischievously, fangs and all. "Tomorrow, we start the real fun. What my readers really want! My master says with blood-curdling enthusiasm.  
I have a sinking feeling... It is going to get bloody. "Hehe."


	3. Chapter 3

When it comes to my personal lifestyle, many things come to mind when I walk. All of the different people I have seen, met… and killed. If you are a Vampire such as I, you will find yourself remembering the faces of so many people you have "encountered." But the most identifying factor you will remember about a person… is their blood. In the realm of Vampires, blood is a currency. All of a person's actions, looks, their way of movement, memories, and soul are bound in blood. When a Vampire drinks the blood of a human or another demonic being, (Vampires included) their essence is absorbed into the consciousness of the Vampire. From then on the Vampire has the ability to call upon whomever he wishes from his own consciousness, and use them as however he pleases. This "familiar" however has no conscious mind to speak of, and so can only act upon instinct. This is one of the worst torments a soul can be brought to bear. An eternal stay in the deepest circle of hell would be less of a torture for these men, women, and… I don't even know what to call some anymore. The only reason any of these beings have been made to suffer as they do, was because of a single Vampire's handiwork on my poor human soul. That was when I still had what someone could actually consider a soul. The beginning of my insatiable bloodlust began in the year of 1888, London, England.

**London, England. Whitechapel District**

**October 10****th****, 1888.**

Just as it was any other day, Walter's eyes opened to his window. The sunlight perfectly lit his room, with no blinding effect. The reason for this was the great clock, "Big Ben"**. **The morning sun hid three-fourths of itself behind the old clock, just giving him enough light to see the room. Quickly Walter gets out of bed, and without hesitation made his bed. "Mo-her' would have my blewdy` head kno-ed` in the hangman's noose if she saw my bed in this shape." Walter said to himself in a grim, heavy English accent. He turned to his brown, diamond-pattered, bathroom door and turned the knob. Walter entered his bathroom to take a quick shower before his day could begin. Clothing flopped onto the toilet next to neatly folded clothes on the sink cabinet. Walter goes into the shower and turns the heat to about one-hundred-five degrees. Walter begins to think excitedly about working with his father at the detective precinct. His father is head detective there. Apparently his father needs his son's help in discovering the identity of a criminal. Although, he has no idea why his father would want him to come and help, Walter's career choice was one of literature, poetry specifically. Whatever a poet could do to assist a police case, Walter hadn't the foggiest. Walter released his tense muscles and finished in the shower. He dressed himself with a wool hat upon his head that his mother had made with care. A simple white undershirt, with a hooded green sweater overtop, and a pair of black slacks over his legs. Walter put on his black loafers, threw on a coat, and walked out the door.

The streets of London were filled with people, particularly this street. Walter had the misfortune to be living in the one house that is next to the exercise gym. The encouraging sounds of the gym coach motivating his students, surprisingly took priority in Walter's ears over the chatter of people he walked by. It was a cold day, so he put his hands in his coat pockets to keep them warm. "Should have worn mittens…" Walter mumbled to himself. The way to the detective precinct was not that far away, so that Walter taking his car was not required. The loud noise of a horn caused Walter's ears to ring. He had not turned his head, but all he could hear was "you blewdy f-kin idiot!" From an impatient middle-aged man who valued his extra two seconds of getting to his destination. Walter chuckled to himself, and began to walk at a faster pace. Walter then heard the quarter-ring of Big Ben, signaling that he would still be fifteen minutes early arriving at the precinct. His father had almost demanded that Walter be at the precinct before 9:00 A.M. It must be a pretty important case to have his father be so demanding of him, almost out of character. Walter looked up to see the detective precinct's unmistakable, blood red sign. He climbed the many stone steps, opened the door, and walked in. A thought passed through Walter's mind if he should have knocked first. Walter walked into the main room, and seen a mature woman, looking to be about Walter's age with long blonde hair, freckles, blue eyes, and a devilish looking girl on her cap. She noticed Walter's presence, "Hello, my name is Sarah Jackalson. Do you have business here, Sir?" She said in a very professional manner. She spoke in an accent that Walter was unfamiliar with. "Oh!" Walter blurted out, with a red face. "I... I'm ere` to see my father." Walter said nervously. "Your father… you're going to have to be a bit more specific than that hun." She retorted kindly. Only Walter's mother had ever called him "hun or "honey." Hearing this woman saying it was a little unnerving for the young poet. Just as Walter was about to say something, Sarah leaned her head towards his and squinted her eyes. She then relaxed her expression as if she had a question answered. "You look like your Stephenson's son. Am I wrong?" she said perceptively. This woman's perception is very keen, Walter thought to himself. "Yes, quite right, Miss. Jackalson. Would you take me to where he is? Walter responded more maturely this time. "Well of course! Just let me organize a little bit around here." Sarah said while picking up a paper bag and water bottle off the floor, and placing them in their respective bins. Sarah waved her hand, urging Walter to follow. Walter blinked but then understood her gesture, and quickly followed behind.

"So what did you say your name was?" Sarah asked Walter. "Well, I di-n't give you my name Miss." Walter replied matter of factually. Sarah sighed heavily; "You don't get out much do you hun?" Sarah said blatantly. They walked through a door, which led to another hallway. "No, to be honest with you I don't. By trade I am a poet, and so I spend long hours of the day in my own mind." Walter explained to her. "Oh, I see. Well then let me just ask." Sarah stops suddenly, Walter looks over his shoulder at her. "What is your name hun?" Sarah asked with a face of pained tension. Walter turns to face her. "My name is Walter Bullock, son of Stephenson Bullock." Walter introduced himself. Sarah only looked at him in pure astonishment. "Your parents really brought you up to be chivalrous didn't they? Sarah asks followed by a quick chuckle. They both continue walking down the hallway. "Both, my mother and my father always taught me to be chivalrous to a lady. This is one of the many practices I use." Walter said proudly. Sarah starts to giggle at Walter's proclamation. "You're certainly an interesting guy, I'll give you that." Sarah admittedly said as she stopped just before the door. It read "**H.D Office**" in black bold letters. "What does H.D stand for?" Walter asked curiously. Sarah turned to him. "It means Head Detective, that's who your daddy is. Sarah replied strangely to Walter's ears. "Well I'd better get going hun. Good luck on that case." Sarah said as she began to walk away.

"Wait!" Walter exclaimed. Sarah turned her head and tilted it to the side questionably. "I wanted to ask you, if it's not impolite." Walter stumbled with his words. "Well? Out with it man." Sarah demanded. Walter bent his arms in front of him, pressed against his chest were his fisted hands. "What is with your accent?" Walter asked timidly. Sarah smiled brightly. "Well you see Walter. I am not really from around here, you see." She explained. "Where are you from then?" Walter inquired. "You'll have to find out next time you see me. It will give us something else to talk about." She replied and then walked hurriedly down the hallway, closing the door with force behind her. Walter stood there completely dumfounded. He turned to his father's office door. Walter knocked twice on the door and walked in. The room was quite clean and organized, conflicting with his father's "cleanliness" at his own home. In the middle of the room sat a desk with Stephenson, and another man looking through what appeared to be case files, and newspaper articles. Both men look up at Walter, the unnamed man's eyes brightening at seeing a new face. Stephen stood up and walked over to his son, and putting his hand on Walter's back. "This is my son Walter, Jack." Stephen introduced his son to his co-worker. "Oy` Stephen, ye know tis` proper etiquette for a man to introduce himself to a new face." The man said jokingly to Walter's father. Walter was slightly intimidated by Jack's tall and bulky structure. Walter wagered that he was at least six feet of seven inches, judging by how close Jack's head was to the ceiling. Jack walks over to Walter, ducking his head under an air duct that ran across the ceiling. Jack extended his hand to Walter from what appeared to be the ceiling. "Te` name is Jack Jefferson. An easy name to remember, I assure ye!" Jack said exuberantly with a smiling expression painted on his face. Walter was at least a height of six feet of three inches, but even he felt small in comparison to this "giant." Walter's father was at least 3 inches shorter than he was, but the height of Jack didn't seem to faze him. "Good day Jack. My name is Walter Bullock, esteemed poet if I do say so myself. Walter introduced himself proudly. Jack smiled at Walter's proud response. "Tis' good t' sees a young man so full of proud arrogance." Jack says, followed by a deep booming laugh. Walter could have sworn an earthquake had shaken his bones. Walter put his hand on Jack's and they shared in a strong gripped handshake.

"Now that our introductions are in order, Son, I would like you to look at the case you will be `elping us with." Stephenson said, and then looked at Jack. Jack turned and picked up a file dossier with newspaper clippings. He handed it over to Walter, and he looked at the title of the first heading.

**WOMAN FOUND MUTILATED IN ALLEY OF WHITECHAPEL DISTRICT**


End file.
